Written by Mattie Balagat
Earth that remembers last night’s downpour,
a thousand miles beneath the crow’s wing.
Sunrise skids on patches of rice field
to the beyond, behind mountains—
But always, there are mountains.
Maybe the clouds will stretch
to some lonely afternoon
in the corner of a cold living room.
Maybe the morning dust
will fall like soft rain on cheeks,
while pale light pardons the sneezing.
In any case, there’ll be
the smell of garlic frying,
climbing to the ceilings.
And the odd breeze of the year-end
tiding in like a light caress.
Someone’s gracious arrival
the first notes of a Carpenters classic.
Bones and their rudimentary compass:
the map of a child’s eye.
This way distance will always be
the number of times
the moon blinks outside the window,
on the way home.